Joshua Mohr - Some Things That Meant the World to Me

"Sure."

"I'll show you something I love. And you show me something you love."

I knew right away that I wanted to show her my Rorschach tattoo; she'd stare at it and suddenly she'd see something astonishing. "Can I go first?" I said. "I've got a good one. We need to go to my apartment."

"Ooooh. Trying to take me home already?"

We started walking toward my apartment, but we only took a couple steps.

Then I saw where we were.

Where we were standing.

What was right next to us.

I froze.

This couldn't be a coincidence. No way. I felt the levers of fate steering me in a certain direction.

Look at the facts: Handa and I strolled down Valencia, sipping coffees, talking, and out of nowhere she suggested that we share something that we loved with each other, and now we were in the one place in the entire world where I could really share something that I loved.

Me, Rhonda, her, Handa…

…right in front of the taqueria…

…the taqueria with the dumpster…

…the dumpster with the trapdoor…

And right then I knew that I was supposed to take her down with me, supposed to show her the secret passageway into the sewer system and help her climb down the humungous ladder and help her find her way through all those dark tunnels and show her the puddles, show her that there was one way left for me to see my mom.

"Are you all right?" Handa said.

I still hadn't taken a step.

"Big Boy, is something wrong?"

"Let's go back there," I said, motioning to the alley behind the taqueria.

There were no streetlights down the alley. Just darkness. Just secrets.

"Why?" she said, and I said, "Trust me."

"Too spooky," she said, and I said, "It's back there," and she said, "What is?"

"What I love," I said, "is back there," and I knew she was scared, but there was no reason to be scared, I wanted to tell her that this was the kind of thing you did when you were falling in love, when your names rhymed, when you'd just had a magnificent dinner together. I wanted to tell her that I understood she was uneasy and apprehensive, but I'd never let anything happen to her, because she made me happy and I'd never been happy, and we could be happy for the rest of our lives. She was safe and loved, and I was safe and loved, and nobody was ever going to hurt us. I wanted to tell her that maybe people could be happy, maybe people could sculpt happiness out of all their shapeless disasters. I'd tell her that we could build it, and we wouldn't have to do anything except breathe, because everything else would already be in place and everything would already be beautiful and we'd be beautiful, and the only thing we'd ever have to worry about again is breathing, that was it.

"Is there another way we can go?" she said. "This is spooky."

"You're safe," I said and took her wrist with my good hand and guided her. The alley had the smell of boiled chicken and onions, and Handa wasn't walking fast. I practically dragged her. Forced her. But I knew in the end this would all be worth it. All she needed to do was see where we were going, where we were going to end up, and she'd trust me forever.

"Let's go back," she said.

"We're almost there."

"You're hurting my wrist."

I let go of it and said I was sorry.

She rubbed the spot where my hand had been.

I stopped in front of the dumpster and patted its metal side. "This is it."

"You love this?"

"I love this."

"You love a dumpster?"

"It's not just a dumpster."

"Can we leave?"

"Trust me."

"Please?"

"You won't believe this."

"I'd like to leave."

"Just give me a second."

"Can we please leave?"

"Hold on," I said, knowing there was nothing I could say to make her understand; she had to see with her own eyes, had to see the trapdoor and the huge ladder snaking down into the darkness. She needed to experience it all for herself and then she'd understand.

I threw the dumpster's lid open and was trampled by its humid breath, yawns of awful odors, all those wasted meats — steak and pork and chicken — rotting and steaming in the dumpster's stomach, and lucky for me, it was only half-full this time so I jumped in and burrowed through the swampy textures, but it was slow going because of my crooked arm, and Handa said, "Big Boy, please, stop!" and I said, "Just wait one second," and she said, "I'm leaving," and I said, "I know this seems weird, but trust me."

I continued my excavation, tunneling deeper, throwing handfuls of old napkins and Styrofoam boxes and clumps of rice into the alley, and she said again, "Please stop!" but my fingernails were already scratching against the dumpster's metal bottom, I didn't even throw the rest of the trash out, scooting it into the corners. I told Handa, "I can't wait for you to see this," and she said, "Stop, please," but I was so close, launching the last bits of trash out of my way, and the door should be right here. The door should have been right here. But it wasn't. I told myself not to be scared, to stay calm. The garbage that I'd only pushed aside before, now I heaved every single thing out of the dumpster, because this was all some mistake, some misunderstanding, I knew there was a trapdoor, I'd already squeezed through it and I was going to do it again, we were going to do it together, Handa and Rhonda. We'd squeeze through, and this was the beginning of a happy life together.

I couldn't bring myself to go to Damascus because I didn't want to see Vern and I obviously couldn't go to Handa's store. Lucky for me, there were entire constellations of liquor stores in the Mission; I bought bourbon and brought it back to my apartment, plopped down on the burned couch. Drinking. Staring at the bend in my arm. Inflating with humiliation, swelling like Madeline had done. Waiting for the warp in my arm to speed up, for my arm to suddenly wrap around my neck like a boa constrictor and put me out of my misery. Thinking about my mom, leaving. How everyone leaves, and no one cares, and why didn't she visit me when I was in the hospital, and why didn't she try to reach me after I got out, why hasn't she called me to say I know you had depersonalization and I'm sure you regret what you did, but I should have done a better job protecting you and the past is the past and let's try and be a family?

And thinking about Handa, too, as she ran down the alley, away from me and the magic dumpster, as I stood in it, trash thrown everywhere, thinking about her telling me to stay away from her and never come in the store again, I mean NEVER, EVER, or I'll call the police, I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!

I stormed into the kitchen and took the picture of the homeless man and his pizza box off the fridge, ripped it up, shoved it into my mouth, washed it down with a huge swig of bourbon. My eyes welling up. I didn't need that picture. Things couldn't be worse. I'd been wrong. Been wrong this whole time. Things were awful and life was awful and there was no way all this sadness would ever be conquered by anything else. Life was just a collection of sadness, an acceptance of sadness, its prowess caging us all in regret.

Then I heard purring coming from inside the burned couch. I jumped up. Stood in front of it. Something slithered around under the couch's charred fabric, like a burst of liquid navigating a vein. I leaned over and pushed on it, expected it to buckle under the pressure from my finger, but it was hard, felt strong. The purring got louder. I knew the noise. It was a sidewinder. One of my friends. I went to the kitchen for a knife and cut a deep gash in the arm of the couch, a gash much deeper than the fire's damage, and a sidewinder fell out of the couch and onto the floor. It coiled and purred and I got down on the floor, stuck my face right up to it. Felt the calming flit of that cold tongue. That loving tongue. Touching me in rhythmic rushes, fast lashings. My old friend, my protector, we'd spent so much time together. I'd hide and you'd watch out for me, wouldn't let anyone hurt me.